


Permissions

by greenripper (OracleGlass)



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: D/s, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OracleGlass/pseuds/greenripper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace grants the permissions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permissions

He is on his knees in front of her; the dim light from the neon sign across the street is the only illumination they have. It glints redly on Jane's blond curls, and as Grace runs one languid hand through them, the same light turns her pale skin to an otherworldly pink.

"Say it, Patrick." Her voice is quiet, but there is a throb underlying it, and Jane quivers in response. It's barely there, but she can feel it under her fingertips, and a small smile appears on her lips and disappears just as swiftly.

"Please," he whispers. "Please let me..." His voice trails off, and he presses his cheek against the bare skin of her thigh.

"Ask for permission," she says, steely.

There's a clanging noise in the street, and she turns her head to see, presenting Jane with her flawless profile, hard and stern like a carved cameo. The neon blinks again, on, off, and she returns her attention to Jane and runs her fingers through his hair again, this time scratching gently with her fingernails. He groans softly, rubs his face against her, and the gentle scrape of beard stubble against her skin makes her ache, brings her nipples to hard points.

"Please let me taste you." His words are muffled against her thigh, but she hears him clearly enough.

"You have my permission."

She lies back on the bed and he pushes her legs apart, running his hand along the plain white cotton of her panties. He traces her curves through the fabric and she sighs, shifts her weight a little bit on the sagging mattress. He tugs, and the underwear slides off her hip, then down her thighs, and winds up trapped somewhere against the back of her left calf, a forgotten scrap.

He leans in and licks into her, slow and hot, his fingertips making dents in her skin. In the morning, there will be a faint bruise or two, something for her to look at as she showers herself clean. Jane's mouth finds her clit, and he sucks it gently, teases it with the tip of his tongue, and she moans, her hips lifting off the bed, pressing herself against his mouth.

"Like that, Jane. Don't you dare stop. Don't stop..." Her voice fades to a whisper and she arches her back, fingers scrabbling against the cheap coverlet of the bed.

Jane is obedient. He continues to run his tongue against her, a little more slowly now, exploring delicately, teasing. He slides a finger into her, and as she hisses and bucks against him he slides a second in as well, moving it in deliberate thrusts as she cries out loudly, rolls her hips, fucks him back, forces him to make her come screaming.

Later, she rides him, curved backwards, fingernails pressing half-moons into his thighs where she braces against him. His eyes are closed, mouth slack as he surrenders himself entirely to her use. Her nails dig in a little more fiercely, just for the pleasure of seeing him wince - mark for mark, somehow it always works out like this, such a strange negotiation they have created between them. Somehow his surrender to her is the only way he allows himself to release that iron control, and she believes, though she could never ask, that Jane would welcome harsher treatment, accept it as his due. She won't go to that place, though - can't see herself with either a metaphorical or physical whip hand, despite the unexplainable sense of rightness she feels when Jane kneels at her feet, his head in her lap, completely given over to her. Underneath it all, she thinks wryly to herself, she is still a Nice Girl.

Tomorrow, they will see each other at work, and Jane will once again devote his energies to driving Lisbon crazy, to poking Rigsby to get any reaction he can (he's learned this mostly fails to work on Cho). He will pester Grace with outrageously personal questions and then read an encyclopedic answer into a tiny twitch of her eyebrow. Obnoxious, quicksilver, utterly exasperating. Until, in a week or a month, he will look at her across the office when he knows no-one will see the nakedly pleading look in his eyes.

Perhaps she will bring her handcuffs next time.


End file.
